At seven in the morning, it's the same old, same routine. Start cleaning the house, make it sparkly clean. Polish the furniture, do the laundry, and sweep the floor. At quarter past the hour, it's time for a quick chore. I'll read a book or two, paint a picture or three. I'll play the guitar, knit a sweater, and bake a pie. Oh, when will my life begin?
In the afternoon, I'll play a game of darts and bake some cookies. Do some paper-mâché, dance the ballet, and play chess. I'll make some pottery, do some voiceover work, and dip some candles. I'll do a backflip, sew a dress, and read a book again. I'll paint the walls and brush my hair. It's a whirlwind of activity. Stuck in here, it's getting kind of dreary. I wonder if my life, my life, my life will ever begin.
Tomorrow night, the floating lights will come to town. Like every year on my birthday, I'll make my way downtown. In the glowing lights, I'll find my way. Mother will allow me to see them for one day.
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